


All Wrongs Righted

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Corporal Punishment, Javert Lives, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Paris Era, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Spanking for Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8141117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Of all the Sundays Valjean spent in Javert's room, none felt as right as this Sunday he spends on his knees instead.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



“There are,” Javert says quite sensibly, “rules. As I am certain M. le Maire knows.”

The words are spoken softly, but with a quiet dignity. He holds himself with the manner of a wounded soldier facing the enemy with his breast bared. Valjean, who well remembers that moment when he cited the laws that make him Javert's superior in all things, even in the matter of Fantine's arrest, finds that he cannot argue with that simple declaration.

The truth is, of course, that Valjean is well aware of the laws and guidelines that regulate the hierarchy of police and state. Every citizen is aware of these simple rules. Any magistrate has cause to see to the execution of these particular laws that govern society a dozen times a year—perhaps even more, if a man is so inclined. It is not a shameful thing for a magistrate to take pride in seeing to order and ensuring that his town and his police is well-run, with small infractions immediately disciplined and all wrongs righted.

And yet Madeleine is a private man who has not once found reason to raise his hand against another. Where such correction was necessary, Madeleine has hidden behind his work or long walks, the never-ending business of running a town like Montreuil reason enough to leave these tasks to his subordinates. There is talk, as there always is, but given the mystery of Madeleine's grotto and other peculiarities, it seems no more eccentric than so many other of his habits.

The truth is, of course, that Madeleine is none other than Jean Valjean; that he is no citizen; no Magistrate; that he spent nineteen years in the bagne; and that such chastisements with the veneer of civilization and respectability are as unknown to him as the lash to any elector.

Jean Valjean, the galley-slave, only knows the bruising impact of the cudgel and the bite of the lash. What Javert is asking of him now is impossible. There are many reason why Valjean should order Javert out of his office, or perhaps, if the man insists, leave the room and have his secretary see to the distasteful task instead. Yet Valjean is still shaking from having been so nearly uncovered, his mind reeling from the sudden knowledge that another was arrested in his stead, and the silence has already lasted too long.

With a trembling hand, he gestures at his desk. Valjean walks around until he stands behind Javert, for a moment safe from those piercing eyes. He watches—still not quite able to make sense of what is about to happen—as Javert, slowly and meticulously, shrugs off his coat, opens his trousers, pushes them down and bends over his desk.

Javert's arse is pale. That is the first thing that comes to Valjean's mind, incongruous and strangely absurd in such a situation. It brings with it images of the bagne, men like Valjean forced to wash and sleep with no privacy while men like Javert watched with distrustful eyes from a distance.

Seen like this, there is no difference he can make out. What then is it that earns this arse a more civilized treatment while for Valjean, there was only ever the agony of the lash?

But he cannot go into this with anger. Surely that will give him away just as certainly as refusing to see to this quite ordinary task. It is only for a convict, for a man who has never possessed any of the rights of the citizen, that this would cause undue distress. If he can just bring himself to do this one small thing, Javert will leave, and Valjean will have the solitude of his office to try and make sense of what has to be done.

Javert is wearing gloves. As Valjean watches, he can see Javert's fingers clench before Javert at last grabs hold of his shirt and pushes it up, baring the curves of his backside to Valjean's view.

What is expected of him? Valjean has never imagined to be in this position. If there are words to say, gestures to make, he is not aware of them.

In the end, of course, surely it will not matter. He is Javert's superior; for Javert that is enough, and perhaps Valjean's silence will simply be counted as sign of his righteous anger instead of one more suspicious eccentricity.

“Monsieur,” Javert say again with all his wounded dignity.

Valjean takes a deep breath, then raises his hand. The warmth of Javert's skin comes as a shock; so comes the firmness and roundness of his buttocks. Valjean is suddenly reminded of the living, animal warmth of a horse whose neck he stroked yesterday after freeing it from a broken carriage.

The animal had been grateful. Javert merely shifts and manages to sound quietly resentful as he exhales.

Chastened himself, Valjean raises his hand once more, already fearing the warmth of Javert's skin. To deal with this as quickly as possible is the only recourse he has; Javert might cite the law, but surely a few swats with his hand will be enough to satisfy—

“Monsieur,” Javert says again, and even his subservience is not enough to mask the annoyance in his voice. “The law is quite explicit; this hardly counts as discipline. Perhaps my belt, if I might make a suggestion...”

Flustered, Valjean nearly takes a step back, images of the lash curled in a guard's hand suddenly rising up in his mind. No, not the belt. Not that. He could not take it, he knows that at least.

“My hand will be quite enough, Javert,” he says kindly, his voice rougher than seems proper in this situation. What will Javert take away from that?

Perhaps it will not be the worst to have Javert think that Madeleine enjoys this situation more than a man should. It would not be the worst outcome that is possible.

Once more his hand rises and falls. This time, there is strength behind it. His hand stings at the contact, and Javert breathes out a small, stifled moan. When Valjean takes his hand away, there is a reddened imprint; better, Valjean thinks with relief, and then flushes as he catches himself staring at the outline of his fingers on Javert's pale skin.

How many of the men he slept and toiled beside have dreamed of such a sight? Except for the occasional moment of dull, hopeless anger, Valjean has never been one of them, but the sight is unsettling, makes him breathless and almost afraid. Javert is too helpless like this. Something about his vulnerability, the dark hair and blue veins on pale skin, the shadow of his ball sack hanging heavily between his thighs, makes Valjean's mouth go dry.

Once more he hits Javert. The sound of the slap reverberates in the quiet office; so does the pained grunt that escapes Javert. It drowns out the sound of Valjean's own heavy breathing. Valjean is grateful for that. Again he allows his hand to fall; he alternates until both buttocks are covered in the imprints of his hands, pale skin flushing rose and then a bright red.

Javert holds still for all of it, his arse offered obediently up for Valjean's hand without complaint. Javert surrenders himself to the law with the same fanatical devotion with which he pursues those who break it. Perhaps it should not astound Valjean, and yet, now that he has Javert at his mercy, no longer facing those suspicious eyes or the scowling mouth, it is harder and harder to believe that the warm, living skin that flinches and flushes at his chastisement belongs to that stern man of shadows and iron.

By accident, his gaze lowers just when Javert shifts again. Instead of the shadow of his balls Valjean sees something else: the outline of Javert's cock, not pale but flushed like his buttocks, standing stiffly up.

For a moment, Valjean does not know what to do, this world that has only barely begun to make sense splintering and turning into something else entirely. His heart is thudding in his chest, his hand in the air, held in stasis for one endless moment as he stares in disbelief. Then, Javert shifts again, and all of a sudden Valjean remembers where he is, and most importantly, what role he has to play.

He knows nothing of these things. He has to remember that; he cannot betray his lack of knowledge. For all he knows, this might be an entirely natural part of such a punishment. Is he supposed to acknowledge it?

Again he stares at the flushed arse, at the eager obedience with which Javert displays it to him. His thighs are spread, and it would be easy to slide a knee in between. No doubt Javert's thighs would spread more in willing submission until the crease between his buttocks is revealed to the light, the shadowed hole coming into view for further disciplining or inspection.

Valjean is not innocent of such things: he has spent too many nights in the salle with too many men grasping at whatever entertainment and intimacy could be found. Not once did he feel the temptation to join in or give himself up to such things. But now that Javert is spread out before him, the warmth of his skin still making his palm sting, for a moment the sheer idea that Javert would let him look, would let him touch, makes his mind reel.

Even as he watches, Javert's thighs move apart as if he read his thoughts. The motion is surely unconscious; Valjean can see no more than the curve of his balls, looking flushed and full despite the merciless punishment. Even so, it is enough to make Valjean come to himself.

He takes a step back, trembling and pale, wiping his hand across his brow. His skin is clammy with sweat; his fingers are reddened and alive with the thrum of chastising Javert.

“That is all,” Valjean says. He has to swallow; he does not want to look at Javert, but he forces himself to watch nevertheless as Javert straightens and draws up his clothes. His cock is still hard; stiff and large, it bobs uselessly in the air before it is pushed back into Javert's trousers with ungentle hands. Because he listens for it, he hears Javert's breath hitch; there is no other sign that would give away Javert's state, and Valjean feels exhausted with relief at the thought that this is all that is asked of him, that there will be nothing more.

“Monsieur, I will—”

“Please leave, Javert,” Valjean says, turning his face away at last to look at his desk.

His words border on rudeness, but he feels as if he has given all he can. If he spends just one more moment here with Javert in his rooms, surely something will break. He desperately craves solitude. He is suffocating, his pulse echoing in his ears as he thinks of the way Javert's trousers bulge obscenely, and even now an innocent suffers beneath the weight of his name...

The sound of the door falling shut releases him. He falls into his chair, breathing heavily. He does not dare to look down. The are worse thinks at stake, he tells himself again. Even so, it takes a long time until the roaring of his pulse in his ears recedes enough that he can think of Arras, and of what has to be done.

***

“There are,” Javert forces out from between his teeth ,“rules. As I am certain you know.”

Strangely enough, it is the _vous_ that unsettles Valjean. He has surrendered himself to Javert. He has driven to the house of the boy's family with Javert, and he has relinquished Marius Pontmercy to his grandfather's care, and now—now he is Javert's, as he has promised, sitting next to him in the carriage that will surely drive him to where the irons are waiting for him even now.

So what need does Javert have to say _vous_ when they both know that Valjean is no more than a bagnard, and that as soon as he is clad in the red once more, no one will ever say _monsieur_ again?

Should that thought not be pleasing to Javert? Has Javert not been aware all along that beneath his mask of respectability, the convict has been hiding all these years?

Javert seems to still be waiting for an answer, and so Valjean simply nods. He is aware of the rules and the laws, of course. He knows that this time, it might be death that awaits him, with no king willing to show mercy to one who cheated the state of its justice before.

Javert grinds his teeth. There is a barely contained fury within him. Valjean would not be surprised if Javert were to grasp him by his lapels now and put the irons around his wrists right here in the carriage, but for some reason Javert continues to seethe in silence.

Valjean listens to the clatter of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones. He waits.

At last, when he looks out of the window, he recognizes a street and straightens in surprise. They must have passed a dozen station-houses by now, but Javert did not stop the carriage. Even now, with Valjean looking out of the window in sudden alarm, Javert does not move or explain himself. They drive on and on, and when they halt at last, it is in front of a house Valjean does not recognize.

There are no explanations. By the ease with which Javert moves through the small, cramped apartment they enter, Valjean realizes that this is the home of Javert. He is unsettled, staring at books and shelves and shaving utensils with the wide-eyed discomfort of an explorer entering a village of man-eaters.

Javert paces. Helplessly, Valjean stands in the center of the room, head bowed, waiting for what will come. Surely any moment now there will be the handcuffs, and then another carriage to the cell that awaits him?

"There are rules," Javert mutters again, talking to himself this time.

Valjean does not answer—it does not sound as if Javert expects it, and in any case, there is nothing he can say. He knows that Javert is right. For a man who has been hiding from the law for half a lifetime, there is nothing more familiar than the sword of the law hanging forever over his head. Valjean is aware of what the sentence will be. He is not afraid of it. What he is afraid of is losing all he has: Cosette. But she is already lost to him, and the pain of that is worse than the knowledge of what awaits him.

"Yes," Javert finally forces out from between his teeth, looking strangely agitated. He has taken off his hat and set it down on a table, his hair looking strangely uncombed, sticking up in places as though he had tugged on it in frustration while Valjean was waiting. "Yes, there are rules, Jean Valjean, and you have been flaunting them for too long. It is high time we put an end to it!"

Javert laughs—a terrible laugh, rusty and nearly soundless, and then he grips Valjean's shoulder with a large hand. Valjean shudders beneath his grip but remains obedient. Surely now he will be led outside to climb into another carriage...

Instead, Jean Valjean finds himself pressed down onto the desk, forced to bend over it by the weight of that hand. His thoughts disperse like mist at dawn. He breathes in the scent of wood and polish. Then Javert's hand is at his trousers, opening buttons and pushing down his clothes while Valjean trembles, unable to make sense of what is happening.

The act is familiar. Of course it is. But it escapes all understanding. He has only ever been beaten by cudgels or the lash before. Other, more civilized punishments for transgressions, are reserved for upstanding citizens—an elector might anticipate being bent over a Magistrate's desk, but Valjean has never been a respectable man, and Javert knows it. If Javert demands a recompense now for the day when Valjean had been forced to correct him in such a manner, why would Javert not take his revenge with a whipping?

Perhaps, Valjean tries to reason fearfully, in the absence of the lash it will be the belt...

Then Javert hits him and Valjean gasps at the sharp sting. It is just Javert's hand. He cannot make sense of it, even as heat spreads across his skin.

Javert grabs hold of his wrists with his other hand, gathers them against the small of his back, and Valjean gasps for air, his eyes filling with tears for no discernible reason as Javert's hand comes down again onto his backside.

There is strength in Javert's arms. He is as merciless in this as he has been in his hunt. Again and again, his hand rises and falls as Valjean shudders nervously beneath him, breathless at the ache and the heat that spreads through him. It hurts—Javert is not gentle, and has never been. And yet, for a man whose back still bears the scars of the lash, this is nothing. It is a pain that can be borne. A pain that will leave no marks.

Why then do his eyes keep filling with tears?

He does not understand what Javert is doing. One cannot shame an upstanding citizen with a beating or a whipping, and so, men of good standing have the right to a more civilized chastisement. But Valjean has never had a claim to that right, and Javert knows it. Javert knows that what he is doing is wrong, that Valjean is a convict, that his back is scarred and that he drags his leg even now, and that he should have the whip instead of the hand of an honest man.

When Javert ceases at last, Valjean's cheeks are wet and his buttocks sting. Behind him, he can hear Javert breathing. His own pulse is echoing in his ears, his heart thundering in his chest.

Then he is released. Javert is talking, but Valjean can barely make out the words. He is hard; he takes note of it with bafflement, shamed more by his body's sudden, unexpected betrayal than by the punishment.

With shaking hands he pulls up his trousers and hides the embarrassing sight. His prick continues to ache even trapped behind fabric, a willful, cruel thing that wants to mock him while his reddened skin aches at the rasp of fabric.

"You will return on Sunday," Javert says, his voice a low, threatening growl.

Valjean can only nod with lowered head, eager to promise anything, anything at all, if he can just escape the presence of this man and the unbearable heat that threatens to consume him.

***

The following Sunday, Javert's scheme becomes more obvious to him. It is madness, of course, but it is hard to argue with Javert when he is bent over his desk, trousers tangled around his ankles, his shirt lifted out of the way while Javert's hand falls down again and again.

Valjean trembles every time it impacts with his skin. Javert is strong enough and deliberate enough in his punishment to make certain that it hurts. Still, what is worse than the pain is the way heat spreads through him. This time, Valjean knew what to expect; even so, it did not take more than a few stinging swats of Javert's hand to force tears to his eyes.

Javert is as exacting in this as in all other things. He does not spare the sensitive skin at the crease where buttocks meets thighs; his hand comes down for stinging blow after blow, not ceasing until all of Valjean feels red and sore, throbbing painfully in time to every beat of his heart.

Javert is breathing heavily when he stops. It is the only sound in the room. Valjean's cheeks are wet; he is sprawled across the desk, his face hidden in his arms, boneless with exhaustion, and thrumming with the painful pulse of Javert's chastisement. Worse, his body has mocked him once more, rousing until his prick, too, is throbbing with that same urgent pulse, begging for a touch it does not deserve.

Ashamed, Valjean finally attempts to stand and pull up his trousers—but then Javert's arm comes around him and those long, callused fingers find his prick.

Valjean makes a muffled sound, half shame, half pain. Javert does not speak, but instead of pushing him away, Javert's hand closes around him. He strokes Valjean with the same rough precision of his strikes, drawing a release from him that spatters against Javert's desk and over Javert's fingers and drives the heat of embarrassment into Valjean's face.

Then his trousers are drawn up and fastened. When Valjean at last dares to turn, his cheeks still wet, Javert is already facing away from him.

"You will return next Sunday," Javert says.

Valjean can do no more than nod, even though Javert cannot see it, before he flees from Javert's rooms, his knees still weak.

***

It becomes a ritual. Valjean does not dare to question it, even though he never ceases to wonder why his sentence has been commuted in such a way. Instead of the ignominy of the red cloth and the lash, what he receives instead is Javert's _vous_ and the sting of his hand. What he receives unfailingly as well every Sunday, resting hot and exhausted on Javert's desk, is Javert's palm sliding against his cock, Javert's warm, rough skin drawing pleasure out of him which he does not deserve either, and yet he cannot protest.

Javert does not explain himself. In the end, perhaps there is nothing to explain. Perhaps it is merely Valjean's own unsuitability for such treatment that is revealed by his lack of understanding. He cannot help but remember the sight of Javert bent over his own desk in Montreuil and, more damning, the half-hidden shape of Javert's own prick, roused to a stiffness that seemed as frightening as the rigidity of his nightstick.

And yet, now that Valjean is plagued by the same sin no matter how fervently he prays every Sunday morning at Mass, doubts begin to arise. Is this behavior expected? Had it been expected of Madeleine as well to take care of the man he had disciplined in Montreuil? Had it been one more slight to deny Javert the touch of his hand back then?

But even now the thought makes Valjean shudder. He could not have done it. And what does it matter if Javert felt slighted then; surely by the time Valjean's past was revealed, any conceived slight would have turned into relief. To punish Javert at all must have turned into piercing humiliation for so proud and righteous a man.

Is that why Javert insists on drawing out Valjean's punishment, on repaying him in the same coin week after week, every Sunday the same ritual of breakfast, Mass, a walk in the Luxembourg and then the shameful hour over Javert's desk?

But if it is revenge, it is a merciful one when by all rights Valjean should be sleeping in a cell. And Javert has never been a merciful man.

If it is neither mercy nor revenge, then what is left? Sometimes when he lies exhausted on Javert's desk, offering himself up to a punishment that shames him even as he knows that he does not deserve such clemency, he wonders if perhaps Javert knows the answer to that himself.

Another Sunday arrives. These days it is dark outside when he wakes, and dark when he leaves Javert's rooms. It is the first Sunday of Advent, and at Mass this time of beginnings is greeted with altar and priest clothed in violet.

This morning, the priest's words echoed through Saint-Sulpice with the heaviness of a bell of bronze. “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf,” he read from the pulpit. Valjean barely dared to raise his eyes to the Virgin Mary, already feeling the marks of what was to come on his skin, flushing in shamed anticipation even as he trembled at the truth of those words.

Javert paces more than usual when Valjean arrives. They never talk much; afterwards, Valjean is too exhausted and too ashamed of the tears and his reaction to Javert's touch to linger, and Javert has never tried to prolong the humiliation by keeping him or making him wait before bending him over the desk.

But today, Javert paces even though he does not speak. Once or twice, he softly mutters something Valjean cannot make out. As he stands in the center of the room with bowed head, patiently awaiting the by now familiar sentence, Javert suddenly stops and moves to draw the curtains. Then he lights another candle. There is a fire in Javert's small stove. It is almost too warm inside. How strange; he had never taken Javert for a wasteful man.

They face each other. This, too, is new, and Valjean grows more unsettled. Has Javert finally decided to stop his charade? Will he spend Christmas in chains? But Cosette will without a doubt be welcomed in the boy's home for the holiday, and he cannot not blame Javert if he has suddenly grown weary of this game.

Javert's hands tighten and relax. Javert is wearing gloves, Valjean notes, staring at the black leather while a familiar tension begins to spread through him until his chest is tight.

Then Javert's hand clenches around his shoulder. This time, Valjean is not led to the desk; instead, Javert pulls him over to a chair, wordless and frustrated, and when he sits down, Valjean finds himself briskly pulled across Javert's lap.

A small, breathless sound of humiliation escapes him. His eyes burn and he tenses, but even so he dares not protest. What does he know of these things? To receive the punishment of a gentleman is still more than he deserves, even though being spread across Javert's lap is a terrifying experience. He holds still like a small animal dangling from a predator's teeth, listening to the sound of Javert's breathing.

Then Javert's hands open his trousers and draw them down. Valjean has to lift his hips to assist him. When he settles again, his bare cock slides along the rough wool of Javert's trousers, and he has to bite back a shocked sound.

The friction feels good. Valjean is afraid. Like this, Javert is too close, too overwhelming; heat rushes to Valjean's face as he prays that it will be over soon, and that Javert will not remark on the humiliating way his body chooses to react to the punishment.

Then Javert's hand delivers the first slap. It reverberates through Valjean, bringing with it a familiar heat. Every time the hand falls, more of the stinging heat spreads until Valjean's eyes overflow with tears and he has to force himself not to move. He cannot say what is worse: the ache or the humiliation of being so exposed to Javert.

This time, Javert takes his time. The leather of his gloves is soft and smooth, and it heats from the blows. Every now and then, Javert pauses, allowing his hand to rest on the burning curve of Valjean's buttocks. Valjean's heartbeat echoes in his ears as he concentrates on that gentle pressure of fingertips against the skin of his inner thighs, dreading and yearning for them to move further upward to the center of this relentless ache inside him.

As Javert continues, Valjean trembles, his swollen prick caught between his stomach and Javert's thigh. Every time Javert's hand delivers another painful swat, the muscles and tendons of his thigh flex, and Valjean chokes back a moan. Surely Javert can feel how affected he is. There is no way Javert can miss this—but still his hand comes down regularly, hitting hard enough that Valjean's eyes sting with tears, his other hand heavy at the small of Valjean's back, holding him in place.

When it is done, it feels as if the muscles and bones in his body have turned to liquid, the pulse of his arousal all that keeps him centered. He prays that Javert will ignore it; like this, Javert is too close, and he does not think he could survive the experience without breaking apart.

Javert does not speak. The sound of his breathing is heavy in the room; the hunter closing in on its prey, Valjean thinks tiredly, or perhaps merely the sound of a panicked animal.

Then Valjean shifts, and suddenly everything changes. There, pressing against his hip, he can feel an unmistakable hardness: Javert's prick, pushing up in hunger against the cloth that cages it.

Javert does not move, but he does not have to. Tired and frightened at what he is about to do, Valjean at last surrenders to the pulse that thrums through him. His limbs feel weak as he slides to his knees, his prick as hard as Javert's, even though Valjean's face is still wet from his tears.

He rests his hands on Javert's knees. He does not look up—it already takes all courage he possesses merely to lean forward.

Up close, the bulge in Javert's trousers is just as terrifying; it also draws him further forward, and Javert makes a choked sound when he presses his cheek to it.

Valjean is no innocent. He might never have contemplated such a thing before, but after 19 years in Toulon, there is not much that has remained a mystery to him. He has always kept himself apart, but perhaps it is only right that together with Javert's punishment of him, this last veil should be lifted as well.

His hands shake as he opens Javert's trousers. Javert is hard, and this time, unlike that moment in Montreuil so long ago, it is not hidden away in shadows but right in his face, brazen and unabashed in the way it is swollen with blood. The scent of Javert is overwhelming: animalistic musk, a hint of sweat, leather and tobacco. Scents that are familiar to him: if he closes his eyes, they summon a picture of Javert's rooms with an immediate familiarity a man like him should not posses.

When he closes his mouth around the swollen head of Javert's cock, Javert makes another choked sound. Javert's hands tangle in his hair, a little too roughly, but Valjean thinks he deserves rather more roughness than he has received from this man so far.

A slickness coats the crown of Javert's prick; as he thoughtfully draws his tongue over it, he realizes with shame that the taste is not unpleasant. Another sound escapes Javert at that: a moan that breaks free from between clenched teeth as Javert's hands tug on his hair. Against his chest, Valjean can feel the trembling of Javert's legs. He tries to allow more of Javert's cock to glide along his tongue, a similar sound building in his own chest at the strange sensation.

In a way, this feels right. Perhaps he would understand better if this was what Javert demanded as recompense. But Javert hasn't demanded; instead, he offered the respect that is due a citizen, the honorable punishment of his hand rather than chains and public humiliation.

Of all the Sundays Valjean spent in Javert's room, none felt as right as this Sunday he spends on his knees instead.

Again Javert groans—this time, it almost sounds like Valjean's name, but now the prick in his mouth jerks and fills him with a sudden rush of fluid that takes him by surprise. Valjean's eyes sting again but he swallows it all, Javert's spend hot and bitter as it slides down his throat, and then, at last, he draws back.

His mouth feels a little sore. He has to blink; his eyes are still wet. His own pulse throbs relentlessly between his own legs, but he prays it will be ignored; it feels right, and he would not mind suffering that ache until it recedes. Better this than the vulnerability of allowing Javert to make him come undone with the ease of a man pulling on a loose thread.

Javert is breathing heavily. When Valjean at last hesitantly raises his eyes to his face, he finds Javert's face flushed, his whiskers bristling, those eyes staring down at him from beneath heavy brows with a frown.

“That was not part of your sentence,” Javert says, his voice rough.

When Valjean patiently waits for him to continue, the expression of puzzlement grows and finally turns to frustration. Javert raises a hand, tugs sharply at his own whiskers, then bares his teeth and reaches down. His leather-clad hand closes around Valjean's chin.

“You know that is why you are here?” Javert demands, his voice still rough.

Valjean does not know why he is here, and so he waits.

At last Javert laughs again, that terrible tiger's laugh that would make a smarter man flinch. Valjean simply waits, even as a gloved thumb wipes along his lip.

“That is my decision to make. I have that right!” Javert's eyes are wild, like those of a hunted animal.

Valjean's lips part, allowing the tip of Javert's thumb to slide into his mouth. Carefully, he tastes the leather with his tongue until Javert groans again.

“I know you, Jean Valjean,” Javert mutters feverishly. “I know all your crimes. Who better than me to watch you and see to your punishment?”

Valjean closes his lips lightly around the leather. It is warm; he sucks on it as one would suck on a candied fruit. What Javert says makes little sense. This routine they have fallen into would serve for the transgressions of an honorable man. Perhaps the boy he rescued would have been chastised in such a way—and indeed it is strange that Javert has not mentioned him again while treating Valjean like a man worthy of respect all these weeks. Why the _vous_ , why the sting of Javert's hand instead of the lash?

It does not make sense, and so he draws on the leather some more, tasting salt. When he raises his eyes to Javert's face, he finds Javert watching him intently. The muttered explanations have ceased. Instead, Javert's other hand is hanging in the air for a long moment before it moves forward, a finger tracing his lips as they spread around Javert's thumb.

Again Javert groans, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Come back next Sunday,” he says finally after long minutes have passed.

When Javert's hand pulls back, the leather gleams wetly. Valjean licks his swollen lips thoughtfully, feeling heavy and tired with the weight of arousal that fills him, and strangely fulfilled as he straightens his shoulders beneath that burden.

Only when he has made his way out of the door does he realize that Javert said _tu_ , his voice calm and satisfied. For some strange reason, the _tu_ does not smart.


End file.
